


Effort

by White Queen Writes (DivineLady91)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas Vacation, Don't copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Fluff, Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Post-Canon, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-04-21 12:54:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22076251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DivineLady91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: For their first Christmas together as a married couple, Crowley packs up his husband and whisks him away for a holiday vacation in the South Downs. But that's where things stop going as planned. Snowed in, they do their best to make due. But while Crowley is out hunting down a Christmas tree, Aziraphale stumbles across something on one of the blocked cable channels of the otherwise useless TV that sparks his interest, a long overdue conversation, and an intimate encounter.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 402
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019





	Effort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chvystiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chvystiel/gifts).

> Written for chvystiel who requested Ineffable husbands holiday fluff and/or smut. I hope you enjoy it <3

"Angel! I’m ba-_ack_," Crowley calls from the front door in a vaguely (and possibly _insulting_) rendition of a Cuban accent. Stuck in a remote area of the South Downs without cable, satellite, or Internet, and on track to get snowed in to boot, their sitcom watching options are painfully limited. Crowley hasn’t been able to watch a single episode of _Golden Girls_ in days, but there’s been an _I Love Lucy_ marathon showing on one of the two channels they receive without lines running across the screen.

Crowley wasn’t a huge fan before, but it’s beginning to grow on him.

But by noon, a storm advisory had broken in, warning them that their area was in the path of a huge snow storm, and to lock up and take cover. But there was one problem with that.

They hadn’t gotten their tree yet.

And Crowley would be damned if they spent their first Christmas together without a proper tree.

This holiday vacation was Crowley’s present to his new husband – two weeks away from Mayfair and Soho and Tadfield and London and all the other headaches and bothers of their everyday lives. They’d packed up the Bentley with books, some of Crowley’s more temperamental plants, very few clothes but a whole lot of bourbon, and set out to find the most out-of-the-way place they could rent last minute.

And they did it all the human way, opted completely out of using their powers for this trip.

There’s a rustic appeal to the idea of going completely native over the holidays, but more than that, they didn’t want to risk being monitored, surprise attacked, or _worse_.

Forced to host Archangels for Christmas dinner.

After the advisory came in, Crowley had gone out on his own to cut down a tree. Aziraphale had offered to go with him, but only halfheartedly, making the suggestion out the corner of his mouth while he longingly eyed the warmth of the fireplace, the cozy comfort of the living room sofa and its many chenille throws, and his book of baroque poetry lying open beside the cocoa cooling in his favorite angel wing cup, waiting patiently for his return. So Crowley graciously turned him down, told him it would be quicker if he went on his own, and that he’d be back soon.

That was over two hours ago.

Seeing as he hadn’t gotten a call or text from Aziraphale since, he’s not sure the angel has even noticed the time. Two hours for Aziraphale is like fifteen minutes to humans, and that’s definitely not long enough for Crowley to be missed.

Or Aziraphale left his cell phone in his bookshop. That, too, is a possibility since he can’t stand the thing.

Crowley wrestles the frosty, too-tall tree into the living room, not surprised when Aziraphale doesn’t rush up to help him. What does surprise him is that the living room is completely empty.

Crowley peeks around the tree to the sofa where he’d left Aziraphale, but the angel isn’t there. His cocoa is, and his book, open to the same page as when Crowley left.

But no Aziraphale.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley closes the door behind him, silencing the whistling wind so he can listen for his husband. Crowley knows he’s there. He can feel him close by. “Aziraphale? Where are …?” A visceral awareness suddenly grabs him by the stomach and begins to pull.

He hadn’t heard the sound at first, masked by the savage wind doing its best to rattle the windows out of their panes. But his body recognizes it for what it is the second it hits his ears.

The rhythmic slapping of flesh on flesh.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley repeats as a question to himself because whatever his angel is doing, he doesn’t want to interrupt until he gets a good, long look. He creeps to the bedroom (because where else would a sound like that be coming from?), hopeful as to what he might find.

The reality, however, is slightly disappointing.

But only _slightly_.

Aziraphale isn’t masturbating, which was Crowley’s original guess. He’s watching the telly, tuned into one of the channels they can’t watch without miles of static. It’s got to be a cable channel, the image bleeding between jagged lines, snapping into view for a few seconds, then blurring and becoming static again.

The sound, however, remains clear and constant.

Male voices moaning.

Desperate pleas for _more_!

And loud declarations of, “I’m going to come!”

Crowley’s hands flex, then ball hard at that last one.

Could this be the reason Aziraphale didn’t want to go tree hunting in the first place?

Well, no. It’s colder than cold outside. Anyone not on a life or death mission would be loony to traipse out into the driving snow when they had a warm fire waiting for them indoors.

But maybe Crowley leaving was an opportunity. One Aziraphale couldn’t pass up.

It stings that Aziraphale might rather watch this on his own but Crowley understands why.

Crowley has yet to give Aziraphale any indication that this interests him.

Crowley clears his throat to get his husband’s attention. He’s dying to know what’s going on in Aziraphale’s mind. Aziraphale seems mesmerized, leaning in to the image, his hands hovering over his own body, mainly his stomach, and his throat – the only area where his fingertips can slide over exposed skin.

Crowley clears his throat again louder, and Aziraphale lifts his head. Crowley thought Aziraphale might jump when he realized he was standing there, scamper to change the channel, abolish the image from the screen. Crowley isn’t looking to embarrass his angel (though he had to admit, that reaction would be amusing). He wanted answers, but he also wanted to diffuse the tension he felt in the room, climbing higher with every moan - a mixture of curiosity, desire … and hurt feelings.

But Aziraphale doesn’t jump. He doesn’t change the channel. He doesn’t switch it off. He turns to face Crowley, white fire simmering behind heartbroken blue eyes.

Of all the expressions Crowley expected to see on his angel’s face, this isn’t one of them.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley says softly. “What are you … uh … what are you doing?”

Aziraphale shakes his head, but Crowley doesn’t know whether or not that’s an answer. When he puts a trembling hand to the screen and touches lightly as the two bodies behind the off-colored static come into view, it nearly does Crowley in.

“Why haven't you made love to me yet?” Aziraphale asks.

Crowley’s eyes become wide. He stumbles to answer. “I … well, I …”

“Don’t you want to?”

“Yes!” Crowley nearly screams. “Yes, I do! Of course, I do!”

“Then why haven’t you?”

“It’s just … it’s so … it’s _ngk_! It’s not that simple, Aziraphale. I …”

“Yes?”

Crowley has reasons. _Many_ reasons. Not the best reasons, admittedly, but enough to shut his libido down if he even so much as considers doing anything with Aziraphale other than kissing, unambitious over-clothes petting. But if he’s cornered into boiling them all down to one single reason, it’s that he’s scared. Yes, scared that Aziraphale will Fall, but honestly that doesn’t much concern him.

Scared that Aziraphale won’t enjoy it.

In fact, scared that Aziraphale will _hate_ it.

Scared that him hating it will alter their relationship irrevocably.

Scared that Aziraphale will start to see him differently.

Different can be good. There’s no doubt about that. But Crowley is a _demon_ and sex … sex is physical. It can be soft and tender, but it can also be dirty and raw.

And _painful_.

And as much as Crowley wants to give Aziraphale the soft, deep in his heart, he craves the painful.

Crowley is attracted to Aziraphale in a slew of ways, some of them sexual. And Aziraphale is definitely bastard enough to hold his own. But Crowley also sees Aziraphale as innocent and naïve.

Crowley doesn’t want to be the one to taint that.

So the best ground for them, in Crowley’s mind, is the middle one. The one where they travel the same paths they’ve always traveled, wear down the old familiar roads, and stay the same as they have … for an eternity.

Maybe they won’t venture into new territory, but there’s less of a chance of his angel leaving him.

“You’ve been wonderful,” Aziraphale says. “So patient and thoughtful. Getting away for the holidays was such an inspired idea. We’ve only just started and it’s the most romantic trip I’ve ever been on.”

“I’m glad,” Crowley replies, his smile a nervous twitch because he knows Aziraphale isn’t done. “That’s all I want for you.”

Aziraphale nods. “But can’t we fuck?”

And with that one word out of Aziraphale’s mouth, the carefully knotted threads binding Crowley’s restraint to the hitching post explode.

“I'm sorry,” Aziraphale says, sly smile tipping his lips. “Was that too crass?”

“No,” Crowley says. “No, it's all right. It’s right where I want you, to tell you the truth. But the first time? It should be special, shouldn’t it? And that should mean a little less rough and tumble and a lot more sensual and erotic.”

Aziraphale shrugs. “I don’t see why we can’t have both.”

“True.” Crowley slips off his coat and his glasses, unties his shoes, needing something for his hands to do while they discuss this further. “So, what did you have in mind?”

Aziraphale’s brows draw sharply together. “What do you mean? I thought I was very clear …”

“I mean … do you want …” Crowley gestures, the movements of his hands incongruent with his words “… me to … you know … in you? Or do you want …?”

Aziraphale raises a hand and catches one of his, quieting Crowley, drawing him down to the bed. “I spend a great deal of time giving, my dear. I think I’d like a break from it.”

Crowley smiles. “Receiving it is.” He kisses Aziraphale gently, puts a hand to the back of his neck to keep the angel close. He crawls forward, pushing Aziraphale onto his back. He undresses him. He’d prefer to snap his fingers and be done with it, but that’s only because he’s impatient. Undressing Aziraphale is foreplay, a slow dance of fingers brushing over clothes, then under clothes, painting a trail of gooseflesh on pale skin.

Crowley has been inside Aziraphale’s body, but only in the magical sense; taken a day trip through his memories. He knows that Aziraphale has never been undressed by another pair of hands outside his own, never touched by someone else. Aziraphale’s reaction to being disrobed, to being _seen_, is intoxicating, even if they never share a single other kiss or touch between them.

But Crowley tossing that final article of clothing aside and being able to look upon Aziraphale, knowing that he gets to have him, is the next step on the staircase to paradise.

Crowley’s clothes join Aziraphale’s on the floor in three seconds flat, lumped into a pile that can best be described as _shredded_.

Crowley spreads the angel’s legs and fits himself between them. He hooks his arms beneath his knees to lift his hips, but Aziraphale stops him.

“No, I … I want to do it like they are.” He glances over his shoulder at the screen as it pops into focus. “On my hands and knees.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because as much as I want to see your face,” Aziraphale says, cheeks reddening, “look into your eyes, I should think that would be easier. Less contorting. And probably more pleasurable, for you _and_ me.”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley closes his eyes, tilts his head up, gives his brain a mental slap. “You need to stop talking like that!”

“Why?”

“Because you’re going to do me in before we even get started.”

The couple in the movie, lost momentarily behind a sea of wavy lines, begin to exclaim dramatically the way actors in pornos tend to. Crowley reaches for the remote to turn off the TV, but Aziraphale stops him.

“D-don’t,” he begs softly. “Keep it on. Please?”

“Why?”

“Inspiration? I … I don’t know why, honestly. But having it on kind of reminds me of those baths in Rome. Did you ever go?”

“Yes. I didn’t know _you_ had.”

“Once or twice. Oddly enough, I was one of the rare few who went there to _bathe_.”

“Yeah, well, that makes two of us.”

“But there was … something … about hearing the men there … _enjoy_ one another,” Aziraphale explains, the faltering of his voice punctuating his phrasing, separating his words like Crowley’s hands on his knees, spreading them apart.

“I think I understand.” Crowley grins. “It turns you on.”

“Possibly. Or perhaps I simply … admire it?”

“Same thing.”

“If you say so, my dear.”

Aziraphale leaves one last kiss on Crowley’s lips and turns away, shyly getting into a position that mimics what he’s seen, and not just on the screen. He’s been on Earth for thousands of years. He’s spied, pondered, imagined. He’s let the temptations of others leave footprints in his mind, has allowed them to season his feelings about sex, shape his wants and desires. He thought, after all of that, it would be easy to slip into the armor he’s created for himself as a sexual creature. And if he had decided to share this experience with anyone else for the sole sake of gratification, he could do it – detach from the emotional, leave his insecurities behind, and give in to sin.

But he’s not with just anyone.

And regardless of the fact that Crowley is the one being he should be able to toss aside his fears with, the need to have Crowley want him above all others and keep him wanting is debilitating.

Because in that arena, Aziraphale feels woefully unqualified.

He leans low, rests his head on the mattress. Crowley rushes around him, grabbing pillows to slide underneath the angel’s head.

“Now, you relax,” Crowley says. “Let me take care of you.”

“All right.”

Crowley looks down the slope of his angel’s body – his generous ass, his strong back and shoulders, his powerful arms – and ponders, for the moment, how they should go about this. As supernatural entities, they wouldn’t normally need to approach this the human way. They don’t need lubricants or condoms or anything of the like.

But they’re not using magic now. They’d expressly decided against it, for their own safety. But Crowley is stuck in a position where he knows he’s going to need something to _smooth_ things along.

It’ll shame him later to admit to Aziraphale that he found what he needed during a quick jaunt to the kitchen cabinet, but desperate times call for desperate measures. And besides, olive oil is a more natural equivalent to many of the other things they have available in the cottage.

Less sticky, too.

Crowley slicks himself up with a dollop of oil. He doesn’t need much in the way of friction to get him hard. He’s been achingly hard since the word _fuck_ left Aziraphale’s mouth. He grabs Aziraphale’s hips, caressing with the palms of messy hands, and pulls him back towards him. He settles his cock between Aziraphale’s cheeks, teases his angel open with the head, toying in little circles, before pushing in just barely. Crowley watches in awe as Aziraphale’s body stretches, tight muscle tensing then relaxing for him, accepting him, surrounding him with the gift of Aziraphale’s intense heat.

“Good … _Lord_ …” Aziraphale whispers.

“Oh my … _mmph_! Aziraphale!” Crowley moans, inching inside him until his hips rest flush against him. “You feel … _ngk_ … you feel … _amazing_!”

Aziraphale wants to agree, wants to respond in kind, wants to encourage Crowley to keep going, do something, do _anything_! But he can’t speak. There’s not a single word he can think of to describe what he’s feeling. He has no frame of reference, none that would fit. His hands find a loose section of the sheet beneath him and tug in his frustration at losing the ability to speak.

Crowley pulls almost completely out of Aziraphale’s body, then pushes quickly in. Aziraphale’s back arches, lifting his shoulders before he sinks back down.

“I’ve … I’ve gotta be careful,” Crowley murmurs, shuddering at every noise Aziraphale makes, every response of his body, “or this will be over way too quick …”

“Can’t … _mmph_ … you find a way to stave off, dear?” Aziraphale asks.

“Right! Why don’t you ask me to build you a solar system? It’d be easier.”

Crowley concentrates on Aziraphale’s non-spoken cues: the play of his muscles beneath his skin, his gasps, how his breathing speeds up or hitches in his throat. Aziraphale turns his face, presses his cheek against the pillowcase. Crowley’s eyes lock onto Aziraphale’s expression: eyes squeezed shut, lower lip clamped between his teeth, cheeks flushed a vivid pink. He brings his fist to his mouth and bites into it, whining as Crowley finds a spot inside him that makes his legs quiver. Crowley’s resolve slips as Aziraphale’s teeth sink into the skin of his hand, muffling his mewling cries. Crowley’s lazy rhythm rushes, and Aziraphale squirms at the change.

“Are you okay, angel? Do you need me to slow down?”

“N-no. Quite the opposite. Faster.”

“F-faster?”

“Yes, faster, please. And now, thank you.”

Aziraphale’s politeness makes Crowley chuckle, but he does what his lover wants – faster, harder, until the chant of Crowley’s name that Aziraphale had taken up becomes nothing more than a shadow on his lips, his voice disappearing, his body going still. “Oh …” he whispers, eyelids sliding shut, his muscles, his limbs, motionless with surrender. “Oh, yes … that’s … that’s it … that’s …” Aziraphale’s mouth continues to move even after his voice fades.

Aziraphale writhing beneath him is probably the most erotic thing Crowley has ever witnessed in his entire existence. He isn’t succumbing to a temptation or reacting to an implanted suggestion. Aziraphale’s quivering, his trembling, his moaning are all effects.

The direct effect Crowley is having on Aziraphale.

And he didn’t use his power – _Hell’s_ power – to elicit it.

Crowley did it with his body - the body he’d _chosen_. He did it with his touch, his words, his lips on Aziraphale’s skin, his hands holding his hips, and his voice whispering his name.

Crowley doesn’t have to ask Aziraphale if he’s coming. He feels it tingling in his chest and in his stomach as if the orgasm is his own, his body filling from toes to fingertips with so much heat, it competes with the Hellish fire always present in his body, making it feel ice cold.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale murmurs.

“I know,” he says through clenched teeth.

“Don’t stop.”

“Would never.”

“Please, Crowley, I …”

“I won’t stop. I swear. I … I love you, Aziraphale.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale whimpers. “Yes, I … I love you. I love you, too.”

“I love you … I love you … I … g_rr!_ Fucking shit!” Crowley growls as his hips begin to stutter, start to fail him, and he thinks he might not be able to hold on for his angel. But Aziraphale’s shoulders go slack, his back bows, his arms unwind and stretch out in front of him, and Crowley knows he can let go. The heat that had been rising up inside him releases, his blood cooling as his muscles relax. “Oh … oh, Go—“ he sighs, melting over Aziraphale’s body, limp and useless, but content to be so as long as his angel is satisfied.

The tension that had been hanging in the air before has long gone, but it’s been replaced by a different kind a tension. A tension that poses the questions _What was that? Was it okay? Should we have done it? Was it what he wanted? Was it good?_

_What have I done?_

“How … how was that?” Crowley asks, kissing the sweaty nape of Aziraphale’s neck, failing at not sounding as anxious as he feels. “How do you feel?” _Did you Fall?_ is a close third, but Crowley leaves it unasked.

“I feel …” The expression on Aziraphale’s face changes as his thoughts change, grappling to summarize the experience with words magnanimous enough to make the expanse of his feelings understood “… _incandescent_.”

“Is that … is that good? Is that a good thing?” Crowley asks, too wound up for Aziraphale’s answer to make sense.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says dryly. “It’s good.”

Crowley sighs, relieved. “Good.”

The voices on the TV interrupt. Different voices. Apparently the first movie had ended and a new one began involving two men and a woman. One of the men asks about a photocopy machine in need of repair and Crowley rolls his eyes. He picks up the remote, flashes it to his husband.

“Do you mind?” he asks.

“Not at all,” Aziraphale says. “You know, maybe we should consider making our own movie, my dear. While we’re here. That way we could inspire ourselves instead of relying on this static-y TV.”

Crowley drops the remote and stares at Aziraphale. He doesn’t blink, his face a shade of beet red to rival his hair. He slowly climbs off the bed, limps swiftly through the living room, and heads straight for the front door.

Aziraphale watches with concern and interest. “Where are you going, love?”

“Outside,” Crowley replies.

“In the snow? Without _clothes_!? Whatever for?”

“I need to calm down. Chill out, as they say. If you insist on talking like that, you’re going to discorporate me!”


End file.
